


What We Owe To Each Other

by Ptolemia



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: F/F, F/M, anyway im BACK AT IT AGAIN with everyone's fav clerical threesome, spoilers for one of the destinies in here as well so if u want to avoid that... dont read this, the curate and his sister arent actually related Just To Be Clear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 19:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15848079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ptolemia/pseuds/Ptolemia
Summary: "Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away."1 Corinthians 13:8A late-night conversation is had, promises are made, and destinies are settled... or, at least, certain wheels are set in motion.





	What We Owe To Each Other

**Author's Note:**

> This is self-indulgent as hell but I figured that I might as well post it, since there's so little content for this ship... It's set after the conclusion of the Melancholy Curate storyline, and the player character (Elspeth) has been returning to the Curate's house for 'poetry readings' semi-regularly since then. The second part contains some in-game text from the 'Revelation' destiny, and the characters (bar Elspeth herself) obviously are not my own but rather the property the wonderful wordsmiths at failbetter games. The title is a result of me binging The Good Place last week. Enjoy!

**December 12 th, 1894**

 

You wake with a gasp, and stretch reflexively for the laudanum.

 

A hand grasps yours, gentle but firm. “Enough of that, sweetness.”

Your throat is dry. In the darkness, gentle fingers in your hair still feel like grasping vines, hidden lakes, burning stars- “Please-” you manage to rasp out, “I need-”

“Shh,” she says, smoothing sweat-damp strands of hair from your frantically wheeling eyes. You find a glass raised to your parched lips. “Here, drink a little water. There. Another sip?”

You gaze up, blinking incomprehension. A sliver of moonish-light skirting round the edges of the curtains catches the far side of her face. So soft. The shadows seem to pull away, then, just a little.

“For me?” she asks, still holding up the glass.

You acquiesce, taking another sip, and she seems satisfied.

 

After a moment more you rub your eyes and shuffle yourself a little more upright, the world coming to its senses around you. Ah, of course. Here is the guest-room, which you are beginning to think of as _yours_ , in a terrifyingly plural sort of way. There is the side-desk, and the little cabinet, and the slightly old-fashioned vanity. There is the mirror. Beside you, the Curate is still sleeping soundly, sprawled out across what must be quite considerably more than his fair third of the bed and only mostly shirtless. And before you-

The Enigmatic Sister smiles, and pats your cheek as she puts the glass down. “There. Better?”

You nod.

“You'd do better to lay off it entirely,” she says, frowning at the half-empty bottle of laudanum on the bedside table. “Vile stuff.”

“Not half as bad as-” you shake your head. You have no desire to call back memories of nightmares so freshly laid to rest, not here in the half-light. “It has its uses, in any case.”

She narrows her eyes, but there's an understanding of sorts there, mixed in with the disapproval and something else you can't quite place. “Well, I cannot speak over you, there. But-”

“Mmm?”

She brushes your hair out of your eyes again. “If there is anything I can do to ward off dreams, my services are yours.” Her lips quirk into a little half-smile. “If I can claim nothing else to recommend me, I am at least cheaper than anything that comes in a bottle.”

You smile a little at that, too. “A kiss, then, if you think it can ward off dreams.”

So she leans in, and kisses your forehead, just lightly. When she leans back, the skin still feels a little hot, as though she's transferred some real protective power. “Lie back down,” she says, hands fluttering softly along your arms, “It's not yet three, you should sleep again, if you can.”

“And if I can't?” you say, but you settle down in the crook of her arm, head nestling against her chest for the comforting sounds of a heartbeat.

“Then you shall have company.” She squeezes your shoulder.

 

It strikes you that she is, tonight - despite the late hour - in an unusually loquacious mood, so you say, “Talk to me, then.”

She glances at the Curate, who seems undisturbed by the two of you whispering, and shrugs. “If you'd like. About what?”

“Mmm. Um... what are we going to have for breakfast?”

“I believe Cook had some leftovers she will doubtless make good use of. I, for my part, have an eye on a nice slice of toast and that bramble jam which a certain _somebody_ ,” at which point the Curate's sleeping form is subjected to a baleful glare, “has been snaffling when he thinks it is not attended – despite, I might add, making a most solemn promise to the contrary.”

“By god,” you say, drily, “what a terrible scandal.”

“Indeed. I shall certainly be informing the Ministry of the matter.”

You hum contentedly, and for a while you are quite content with soft breathing and the weight of her hand on yours. But the shadows remain, and sleep is another country, so you endeavour to ward it off, just a little longer.

 

“And-” you say, and you feel her start a little. She must have thought you'd drifted off.

“Yes?”

You rack your brains for some inane topic likely to keep the darkness out. “I- don't know.” You lick your lips. Your throat feels dry again. But she is patient, endlessly patient, and eventually your eyes light on the mistletoe strung up above the door and so you say; “What are you going to get me for Christmas?”

“Hmm.” She strokes your arm, thoughtful. “I confess, I'm not entirely sure.”

“No?”

“I thought wine, but then, I suspect that I would really rather not encourage you there. What do you want?”

“The world,” you say, flippantly, adjusting the covers slightly as you do.

“You would only use it for mischief.”

“Well-”

“Besides, if it were mine to give, my dear, you would already have it.”

That takes you aback. The way she says it is so... earnest. Sincere. It makes your chest hurt. You want to say so many things, but what comes out of your mouth is, “Oh... I. Um. Thank you.”

“Well,” she says, thoughtful, “you would have half of it, in any case.”

“Oh, you'd keep half, would you?”

She shakes her head, and then tilts her chin at the Curate. “Not for _myself_. But I'm sure he'd have things to do, if he had half the world. Souls to be restored, wrongs to be put right...”

You look over at him, too, a solemn sleeping statue in the half-light, and  you nod. “He would, wouldn't he? But I fear there is a small flaw in your plan.”

“Oh? My plan to bestow large tracts of land I don't own on people with neither the money or the expertise to support such gifts has a _flaw_? I am astonished. Do enlighten me.”

“Well, he wouldn't have half.”

“No?”

“We'd have a third each, of course. _That_ is simple common sense.”

 

That silences her for a moment, and then she says, very quietly, “I am, you know, immensely fond of you.”

And because this comes no easier to you than you suspect it does to her, the best you manage to mumble out in response is a slightly strangled but very sincere, “Well, uh, likewise.”

She clears her throat, and for a second you wish more than almost anything that you could catch her expression better in the semi-darkness of the room. “In lieu of a third of the entire world, though,” she says, clearly rather keen to drift back toward lighter topics, “Would tickets to the Opera satisfy?”

“A third of a ticket to the Opera, surely?”

She snorts. “We are _not_ all sitting on the same seat. And thankfully, my funds do stretch to three tickets quite comfortably.”

“... can I pick the show?”

“If you pick sensibly.”

“What on earth is the fun in that?”

She sighs. “You are entirely incorrigible. I despair.”

 

After a moment she touches your cheek and says, “I have to say, I am now a little curious as to what you have planned to get me.”

You lean into the touch, twisting your head a little so you can plant a kiss on her palm. “Do you want a soul? I've no use for mine.”

She stiffens, just fractionally. “That is a joke made in poor taste, my dear.”

You kiss her palm again, in apology. “You're quite right. Sadly, while I may be currently in possession of a soul, I sold my sense of taste _years_ back, in return for a bottle of cheap gin and a ticket to a play which I was promised featured excessive nudity.”

She tuts, but there's little real anger in it. “For goodness' sake. You really are dreadful, sometimes.”

“That's me. Say, what _do_ you want, though?”

She runs a hand through your hair, thoughtful. “Some nice wine for the cellar, to replace that bottle you 'liberated' the other week- and yes, I did indeed notice, and I know that it was you who took it so don't even consider mounting an argument there. What else? Let's see... chocolate never goes amiss. I have a few books I should be interested in getting my hands on, which I made a little list of... my gloves have holes... I would like a new hat but only if it is not overly garish...” she shrugs, which is a slightly awkward motion given how firmly you are now both entwined. “But I confess, on the whole I find I am quite content with your continued presence, as far as gifts go.”

“That is a _clear_ cop-out,” you say, trying to sound stern as you stifle a yawn.

“Not at all. You would understand, I think, were you in my position.”

“I'm not-” you tilt your head up and kiss the base of her jaw. “I have- I'm not going anywhere.”

She smiles sadly. “Ah, now, there's nothing to be gained from promises you don't intend to keep.”

“But I do,” you mutter into her neck, softly but with fervour, “I do intend to keep it.”

“Mmm,” she says, smoothing your hair down, “Then, perhaps I should say that there's nothing to be gained from making promises you _cannot_ keep.”

 

“I can!” you protest, “I can, and I will.”

“Oh?”

You nod, stifling a yawn, eyelids beginning to droop. “I will. I _will_.”

“Ah, promises promises.”

“You don't believe me?”

She hesitates, trailing her fingers over your arm in gentle circles. “I believe your intent. Perhaps I even believe that your utter terror of commitment might abate over the years. But that's the-” She shakes her head.

“But?”

A hesitation. Somewhere, church bells are ringing in the passing of another hour. “ _Years_ , Elspeth. Do you have any idea what it is to care for fleeting little creatures like you and him? Time is a terror. All things are passing, sweetness. Mortals most of all, even down here- _more_ time is not _forever_ , after all.. How does the saying go- a reckoning will not be postponed indefinitely...” She sighs. “Enough. Go to sleep.”

“It will be,” you mumble, arms tight around her, eyelids heavy.

“Oh?”

“I'll postpone it. I'll- I'll fight the boatman.”

“Bold words, my dear.”

“Mmm. And I'll- build us all a house... on the Mountain of Light...”

That gets a muted little laugh. “You will, will you?”

“Right in the Garden! Even if I have to take the gates down with an army. I'll do it.” You yawn, sleep curling ever more insistently around the outer edges of your mind. “That can be your Christmas present. Immortality! And a nice holiday home. Putting up with me _forever_.”

She kisses your forehead. “Perhaps you're setting yourself a rather ambitious task, there? Christmas is but two weeks hence.”

 

“Well,” you yawn, feeling yourself drifting off into dreams even as you speak, “perhaps not _this_ Christmas...”

 

 

****

 

**September 21 st, 1911**

_By the time you return to your pavilion, it is already crowded with your captains: exiles, mercenaries, devils of independent means. The Possessed Emissary. (You watch her closely.) The monkey-queen from the Empire of Hands, her eyes ablaze with soul-greed. The Bishop of St Fiacre's, face frozen in a grimace of delight. And safe behind a pale mask, December of the Calendar Council._  
  
_You don't keep them waiting._  
  
_"You followed me here: and I have preserved you! Did I not promise you as much? The Wax-Wind still sleeps. The rain of souls has passed. We have shamed the Presbyter, the Old God, the hirelings of the Bazaar. And in three days' time..."_  
  
_You have all their attention: but you let them savour the moment. "In three days' time, we will breach the Mountain. The spoils are nothing less than life eternal!”_

 

_You catch her eye, then, for a second – she's tucked herself out of the way of the bulk of the assembled crowd, hand-in-hand with the Curate and smiling one of her enigmatic little smiles – and you think, well, it seems like Christmas is going to be sorted early this year._

 

 


End file.
